


Detonate me

by winterysomnium



Series: Zombie apocalypse AU [6]
Category: DCU (Comics), DCU AU
Genre: Cannibalism, Gore, M/M, Violence, touchy hands, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 16:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6291424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But they’re moving, on the map. They’re moving, and Jason can’t tell: is it closer or further apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detonate me

**Author's Note:**

> Title is partly inspired by the content of this part of the story, partly by a lyric in the song “Free the Animal” by Sia (the song fits this AU a lot). Thank you for @varevare for reading this and for reassurance and everything, you’re the best, bro and a big thank you to @terrythetortoise for the lovely message too! ♥

47 hours, Jason’s not counting them. 47 hours and landscapes detach themselves, from their windows, from the mountain of their elbows, trees sink to lakes and lakes dry to already withering grass, rivers take away what drifts and they dry their hair in the sun, cold and so dark if he had sand, he could pretend it’s stars in Tim’s hair. 47 hours from the fire and he tastes ashes in his throat, finds it locked in between Tim’s clothes, 47 hours and he thinks about Tim, as a concept, as something he wants to forget about, stares and Tim notices, looks at him too and it’s good that the water talks. (Because neither of them is.)

“Are you hungry?” he asks, when the sky fades from their hair, when Tim lies on the hood of his jacket and leaves fall in, too, as if he overpowers the gravity of anything else, as if he’s a picture, painted as he breathes.

“Not too much,” Tim answers, sitting up, dizzyingly quick, crowned by the trees. “We could look for some berries or something though. There’s gotta be something near the water,” he suggests and his arms are the columns of an ancient temple, Jason pretends he doesn’t want to know the deity within.

“Let’s look around.” Jason nods, builds a fence of bones and roads and they look for cousins of garden strawberries, for known shapes and bittersweet tastes of apples and pears, they put the berries into an old container of cream cheese (the fruit on the backseat), washed and dry and their fingers graze each other’s nails, surrounded by plastic, graze their fingerprints, their own mouths and teeth as Tim drives and they both pick out the little raw treats, coloured after their taste and they might not find shelter, again, tonight, they might have to be awake, in turns, they might have to fight through the stubborn hours of unsafe distances and sounds, they might have to hide, underneath the seats.

(But they’re moving, on the map. They’re moving, and Jason can’t tell: is it closer or further apart?)

“So, which are you? The guy who eats the cherry on top first or the guy who saves it for last?” Tim asks, glancing at Jason, breaking in into Jason’s thoughts, mouth half full and air leaves Jason’s lungs like a current, in a quiet, short laugh.

“Will this lead to a psychoanalysis connected to my childhood and forming relationships in a very obscure way?” he asks in return, sees Tim shrug and smirk, like he might do that now, just to annoy him, just so he can say: “Maybe.” but Jason answers, nonetheless.

“Depends on the day.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It _does_. Unless it’s cake. Then I eat it somewhere in the middle.”

“Fan of cakes?”

“ _Big_ fan. What about you? How do _you_ eat your cherries?”

“First and then I ask for another if I can.”

“You were _so_ a spoiled only child.”

“What, I don’t even get to lie down for this session? I want my money back.”

“Point stands.”

“Point is sitting in an uncomfortable chair and did not ask for this but for another cherry.”

Jason offers the container. “We only have strawberries left,” he says and Tim thinks, Tim thinks he’s a big (the biggest) dork.

Jason thinks the same.

(Tim eats the strawberry, anyway.)

—

Hour 48 and Tim sleeps through most of it, through Jason pouring fuel, through them leaving the high way, through Jason driving slower than he’d like and then Tim knocks his pillow off, kicks at the door, forgets the silence and accompanies the engine with a symphony of movement, a symphony of skin and clothes and seats and his teeth and it might be a song of fear, might be the haunting of fists and torn muscles and bitten tongues and sides, torn off –

Jason can’t listen to it, not any longer. Can’t so he slows down, more, _more_ and reaches for Tim, feeling the strain, the subtle ache and shakes his shoulder, rough, straightens the escaping wheel, shakes his shoulder, _rougher_ and Tim jumps awake, with a jerk, with a shiver travelling down to his toes, with something distinct dissipating on his lips.

(He looks sleepy, confused, scared.)

“Jason?” he asks, all three of those carried into his voice, asks and builds columns again and they dip into the soft of the seat and Jason retreats, returns to the front and looks at Tim through the mirror, looks at him through a layer of glass.

“You looked like you had a nightmare,” he explains. Looks away. Watches out.

(Nuances of the dead, movement, a stir. He watches out.)

((Tim looks away, too.))  

“Oh.” He rubs his neck.

“Was it?”

“No, actually. It wasn’t – that kind of a dream,” Tim answers, awake yet dazed and somehow _embarrassed_ and now Jason’s embarrassed, too because – _Damnit_.

“So it wasn’t a bad dream?”

“No, it – wasn’t. I don’t know.”

“Then sorry, man. Didn’t mean to wake you up for nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Tim shrugs. “Are you tired? Because we could swap if you are. I won’t fall asleep now anyway,” Tim offers, still flustered, sort of breathless and he looks oddly uncomfortable and – oh.

Oh God.

(It wasn’t a bad dream, _at all_.)

“You – you uh, want me to stop somewhere to give you some, like, privacy or somethin’?” he rushes out, skin heated, and he won’t look at the guy, won’t look at the guy on the backseat who just dreamed he had been having _sex_ and – _how does he get into these situations_?

(It seems, it seems Tim feels the same way.)

“No!” he yelps, a quiver. “Just – don’t mention it.”

But now – now Jason can’t. He can’t ignore it. He can’t ignore the pull, the _gravity_ and he’s one of those leaves, Tim’s on his back and he’s just _there_ and he looks at him and Jason’s a leaf –)

“You being uncomfortable makes _me_ uncomfortable,” is what he settles for, glances at Tim, glances away. Tim looks at the bottom of the car.

“Well what am I _supposed_ to do? Just jack off with you hearing _everything_? Talk about awkward,” he answers and –

Jason’s stomach hurts.

(It’s a good, long forgotten ache.)

It fuels his mouth.

“I could – I could do it.”

“What?”

“I’ll jack you off.”

“Why?”

“Do you not want me to?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“I’ve seen you looking at me.”

“Doesn’t mean – don’t do it just because you think _I_ want it, dude that’s just messed up –” Tim says, unhappily, frustrated but Jason stops, stops the car and stills and leaves the heating on and Tim smacks into the shoulder of the driver’s seat, with a sudden force, a frown on his mouth but before he can ask, before he can react, Jason turns around and his knee is in the middle of the driver’s seat, his thigh is pressed to the fabric and he orders, “Move over.” and Tim can’t, he can’t now and all he hears is _I’ve seen you looking_ and he urges: “Jason –,” says it as something unsaid, as a whole paragraph of _why not_ ’s but Jason repeats, “Move over.” firmer and something in Tim snaps with it, snaps because he wants it, he does, despite it all still painfully turned on, hard, straining against his jeans and he feels damp, feels as if he could burn out as Jason climbs on the seat too, as Tim’s neck is pressed into the cold glass, as Jason reaches for the zipper between Tim’s legs straight away, as he doesn’t wait for anything, does he want it to be over with or –

Tim moans and it’s louder than they both want it to be, he arches and it’s higher than Jason thought he could and somehow, he’s hotter than anyone Jason has ever touched, genuine, following him and reaching out for his face but – no. _That_ , that’s something Jason can’t do.

He leans away, his hands still on Tim, tight but unmoving and everything else is distant and – “No kissing,” he warns.

“Are you a prostitute or something?” Tim asks, Jason’s words like a fracture, something that hurts because he wanted to kiss him most of all but Jason scoffs, warns again.

“Just don’t kiss me. Or touch me. Okay? That’s the rules.”

“But –”

“Tim. The rules.”

“Okay, okay, geez I won’t, don’t stop _now_ –” and he moans again, when Jason rubs him with his thumb, pulls at Jason’s shoulder, repeating: “I won’t touch you, I promise. I won’t, just let me –” and he presses his mouth to Jason’s shirt, somewhere underneath his neck and above his heart and lungs and he can vaguely, vaguely feel the texture of Jason’s skin, can imagine how it moves and tastes, can breathe in the scent and he knows he’s drooling on him, his mouth carving damp, pretend hickeys into the cotton but Jason doesn’t stop, grips him harder, finds some lotion somewhere in the depths of the trunk of their car, soothingly kisses his hip and he looks for it and Tim grips him tighter, as  he strokes him faster and Tim keeps whimpering into his collarbone, Jason’s thumb rough and his fingers a bit cold and Tim comes then, too soon, heavily, curls his fingers into Jason’s shoulders, Jason’s name smudged and soft, all over his shirt and they both breathe, faster, Tim’s jacket dirty and Jason’s knuckles too; Tim’s hip burns where Jason kissed him, wet and brief.

Jason tucks him back, haphazardly, zips his jeans up and moves away but he’s hard too now, he is, Tim _knows_ he is, so he holds his wrist, asks: “What about –” but Jason pulls away, as soon as the first word left Tim’s mouth. (As if the thought burned him, somehow.)

“No touching. I told you.”

“But _you_ being uncomfortable makes _me_ uncomfortable,” Tim says, repeats, hopes but –

“I said _no_ ,” Jason answers and Tim watches him stumble from the car, tries not to hear him outside, restless, lighting a cigarette he never smokes anymore and half an hour later, Tim’s in the passenger seat, cleaning his jacket, when Jason climbs back into the car, back to where Tim can reach him, a bit more.

“We should move.”

“Yeah. Do you want me to drive?”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“Jason –”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know you don’t.” Tim rubs the last remains of the stain. “But I’m not stupid either.”

_I’ve been looking at you._ _Remember?_

“Whatever you think you know, Tim, you don’t. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”

Tim nods.

“Good.”

(But Tim’s hip burns, with something he can’t really explain.)

((Jason’s arm does, too.))

It takes a good three hours, until they’re themselves again.

—

Over two days now, Jason counts. Over two days ago, they found the fire.

Tim rubs at his hip.

They’re near a city, a small, crowded town, the first distinct lines spreading on the horizon, growing through the scattered fields and three miles, a bent sign says, three miles they could go through quickly, if it weren’t for the walking, fruitlessly grabbing hold of a woman’s feet, about hundred meters away, the scenery like a crooked image of worship, the building wooden and barely holding on with all the pressure – it’s not even a choice.

“We’re helping her,” Tim says, _decides_ and Jason’s _She’s probably with a group._ withers on his mouth.

“Don’t think you can boss me around just because I jacked you off,” he says, instead.

“Well, I _am_. Come on, that’s not going to hold for much longer. We _have_ to help her,” Tim answers, searching for a way to save her, for a way to save _them_ afterwards, too and he won’t change his mind. (Jason knows.)

He sighs, finds the bite under his clothes. “Yeah, yeah I _hear_ you, Tim. What’s the plan?” he asks, and hopes, hopes they won’t get killed. That Tim won’t get bitten.

That it’s not a trap.

(Hopes Tim realizes he wouldn’t let anyone else boss him around, again.)

((Hopes Tim realizes how selfish Jason has been, touching him like that.))

(((He hopes Tim _never_ realizes that, ever.)))

“One of us lures as many of them as possible away with the car. The other gets to her, finds a better spot to hide at, waits for the one with the car to pick us up. How does that sound?”Tim asks, thinking fast and Jason’s, Jason’s already opening the door.

“Sounds like _you_ do the driving and _I’ll_ head out. No protests.” _I’m already one of them. But you don’t have to be, Tim._ He can’t say.

So he takes his knife, his gun.

“I still have some of these bad boys left, too.” He shows the explosives in his pocket, ready to catch fire, ready to detonate and Tim nods. They don’t have the time to argue, now.

“Be safe,” Tim says, wishes and Jason nods, too.

(Even though he’ll never be safe again.

Because Jason – Jason is already one of them bad boys, too.

Ready to catch fire.)

((Ready to detonate.))


End file.
